Lotto

The slicer at the deli makes a sound

like a heavy boot pulled out of mud.

He’d stand there, solid on the ground,

smelling of menthols and lukewarm blood.

I found the ticket in my pocket today,

a silver, crinkled, scratch-off lie.

He spent the grocery money that way,

squinting up at a colorless sky.

The windows were rolled up tight,

trapping the scent of salt and ham.

He’d lean back into the midday light,

not giving a single damn.